Pluto
by Drusilla2
Summary: Angel's POV. "We fled, even under the morning sun. From what, she asked, but the only answer I could supply was the grinding of my teeth and the shaken syllables, 'Myself.' "


TITLE: Pluto  
  
AUTHOR: Jenn AKA Jaye AKA Drusilla  
  
RATING: R just to be safe…  
  
PAIRING: Angel/Faith  
  
SPOILERS: General season three spoilers, as well as season six BtVS spoilers.  
  
SUMMARY: "We fled, even under the morning sun. From what, she asked, but the only answer I could supply was the grinding of my teeth and the shaken syllables, 'Myself.' "   
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Co.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Black Roses. Otherwise, e-mail me and we'll talk.  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
AN: I had a good time writing my fic "Merciful", in Spike's POV, so I thought I'd write another one in a guy's POV. [shrugs] Dunno. I'd just never done it before, figuring that it would be hard or different or ineffective, me being a girl. But it turned out pretty good, so I wanted to do another one. J  
  
AN2: What's with the title? you may ask. Pluto was the Roman god of the Underworld, sent to rule the land of the dead after being defeated by his father.   
  
  
  
PLUTO  
  
* * *  
  
  
I remember my shock and anger, and yes, even denial, when they first broke the news, when they first relayed to me the events that had passed, as well as the long silence on my part which followed.   
  
When, finally, my "breath" came back, my throat choked on the words, What?  
  
We're very sorry, they said, in calm, even tones as they patted my back gently and then quickly straightened their well-bleached white jackets.  
  
I wanted to scream at them, the bastards. They thought she was only another killer, another murderer of innocent men. They, as they offered their condolences, lied plainly, their faces betraying no emotions because they thought that just another criminal was nothing to mourn for.  
  
They thought wrong.  
  
They never knew her. They never saw her smile. They never saved her.  
  
Permission to take her home, I offered, waiting forever patiently as they eyed each other, left the room, and eyed each other some more. Each nodded solemnly as they called a nurse to lead me to her room, where she unhooked all the instruments and nudged her into a wheelchair awkwardly.  
  
How I wanted to squeeze my eyes closed and never see such a sight again! Was I not punished enough? I wondered. First Buffy, then Darla, and now this. Was it my fault? Did they suffer because somehow they were tied to me, however indirectly?  
  
But I didn't and couldn't think about it any longer, for fear of truth.  
  
Absently, I signed the masses of papers and documents the lady at the desk handed to me, scribbling a nonsense of curled penmanship beside the "X". It didn't matter what was on them, what I had unknowingly agreed to.  
  
Nothing mattered until she was safe.  
  
She didn't once open her eyes, or acknowledge me. For this I was grateful: I couldn't answer any of her questions; I certainly couldn't answer any of my own.   
  
I positioned her so that her head rested on my lap, her arms tucked to her breast and her legs curled up against the door.  
  
Every few seconds, her breathing would fall silent, and, in a panic, I would swerve and pull over, frantically searching for her pulse and kissing her hands desperately when I would find it finally, my eyes breaking with tears.  
  
An eternity later, we arrived at the hotel. Carrying her delicately in my arms, I entered, to be greeted by only a trio of cold, suspicious faces and one timid, frightened one. I looked at them and I saw fear. Insecurity. Hate. And most of all, hurt. Evidently the scars could fade away, but the mind would always remember.  
  
I knew, then, that Faith was not welcome here, and therefore, neither was I. I remember Fred's curiousity and almost delight as she fetched Faith a glass of water, poking at her experimentally as though she were an animal, and then recoiling quickly with a startled squeak whenever contact was made, lest this rabid creature bite.  
  
Fred could not be blamed, of course. She never knew Faith; her opinions could only be based on the stories the gang told her while I was gone-- however, I couldn't let such practices persist either. Faith's tired eyes showed no annoyance at the girl's antics, but only because, I presumed, her treatment at the prison was far from humane.  
  
We left the following day.  
  
//  
  
It was not two weeks before they found us. We had established ourselves rather nicely by then, "living" in a two-bedroom apartment with a gas fireplace and, yes, bay windows (well draped, of course) when the letter came, a thin slip of a thing penned in Wesley's careful hand and elegant blue ink.   
  
Formally written, it bore no evidence of compassion. Simply stating the latest news: the increasing strain of Cordelia's visions, the most recent demon-hunting adventure, and.. Buffy.  
  
I ripped the letter to shreds as soon as I saw the word, the five-lettered word that always brought up so much pain. I came here with Faith to forget, to remember, to do everything at once and nothing at the same time. Rushing into her room, I told her, quietly, that we had to leave, and fast.  
  
She nodded, obediently, lowering her head a fraction for mere seconds, without asking any questions. But she knew: she must have known. My tongue revealed only that which I commanded, but my face, I knew, hid nothing.  
  
We were gone in minutes, leaving only empty closets and crisp, white-washed linen behind us.   
  
Her disposition held the appearance of improvement over the next few days. Some nights she would be well enough to come out with me, shopping or strolling along the streets, as long as I held her tightly enough and her fingers were wrapped firmly in mine. We would eat ice cream, or nachos, or drink hot chocolate, whatever she had the craving for.   
  
Once I saw young men look at her and smile, and I couldn't help but grow angry when she smiled back at them, not lewdly as she had in previous days, but genuinely, her pretty face almost shy.  
  
But they, simple minds, could never know her, and never understand.  
  
The poison worked on waves, the doctors had told me. Sometimes the patient would act and feel normal, healthy; the next day the illness would bring her to her knees.   
  
I sat with her, always, during her spells of helplessness. She would tremble, most often, and no amount of coaxing or soothing could quiet her when she wailed. Other times she would sweat until the sheets were drenched and then clatter her teeth, lips turning blue, as soon as they were removed.  
  
Eight days later, a second letter arrived. This time it was far more personal, far more direct. They told me the council was looking for her, looking to destroy her, and reasoned that I should give her to them willingly, to avoid conflict. Better-put, naturally, but nevertheless the core meaning remained.  
  
How they must have taken me for a fool.  
  
We ran again, to a hotel this time, under fake names and fake identification. I was her brother, from Europe, and she was my ailing sister. Obviously, they knew me better than I thought. I woke the second night to the sound of crossbows being fired and then embedded in the wall above me. Sent by the Council, probably. Urging Faith awake, we managed to escape, but with no possessions.  
  
Money is everything, they once told me, and I never believed them, having no need or want for worldly things as a vampire. But I learned the hard way now, with a human to take care of, and feed.  
  
I cried once, as she grew thinner because there was nothing to eat. And it was then that she comforted me, a role reversal of sorts, stroking my lengthening hair gently, her body curled around mine.  
  
It was then that I told her I loved her.  
  
She backed away, disgusted, and ran. Weak as she was, I knew I could never find her unless it was her intention. So I sat there, on her bed, unmoving, for three days and three nights, until I heard the scratch of the window pane against the blinds as she climbed in, sobbing.  
  
I turned to look at her blankly, and she collapsed before me, her breath torn from her like a cruel wind as finally, her emotions were released. Everything that she had held in, all the abuse she tolerated in jail, all the pain of the hostility in which she was treated by my own friends, and yes, all the love, everything was thrown out, hurled upon the Earth to swallow and then digest.  
  
I'm sorry, she gasped, but she had nothing to be sorry for.  
  
I kissed her gently on the forehead, and then on her silken lips, as the moonlight and the rain slanted across us, illuminating her cheek and her breast so that she had the appearance of a fallen goddess. Cautiously, I unbuttoned her garments, dipping my tongue into her hollows as she whimpered against me.  
  
Angel, I heard her whisper, oh God I love-  
  
But she didn't finish, because I already knew, and I captured her mouth into mine.  
  
//  
  
Morning found her nestled against my chest, and I, surprised, smiled for the first time since I left the Hyperion. Her dark hair fell against me in soft torrents, a sharp contrast against the porcelain white of my skin.  
  
Waking, she stirred a little, and then yawning, moved to get up before she noticed my presence. She was used to mistreatment right after the sex, I guessed, so she simply redressed and left the room before I had the opportunity to speak. But, it would be just as well in the end, because this time, they came in person.  
  
I had not expected it in the least, not since we had left L.A. and we did our best to leave no trails. But came they did, complete with unfriendly crossbows and hissing holy water.  
  
Cordelia's face hurt me the most. It was not at all the friendly face a came to understand so well, but I imagined this was the face that all her combatants saw, all her enemies. And at once, I was frightened, frightened to be the enemies of this voracious gang of former friends.  
  
"Where is she?" She hissed, but I had not an answer for that. "Where. the. fuck. is. she?" She repeated again, dragging out every word purposely.  
  
Cordelia, I began to say, but she cut me off with, "Don't give me your crap. You know what Faith is. What she's capable of. So finish this or we're all finished."   
  
I stared at her, hard, but she only stared back with far more venom than I could muster. "You know, I really hate it when I have to search." And with that, Gunn and Wesley turned to find Faith.  
  
I moved.  
  
Backhanding her quickly, she fell to the floor unconscious while I jabbed Wesley in the stomach. He didn't go down though, so I had to punch him in the face once again. But doing this lost me time, and Gunn was onto me already, knocking me over the head with the butt of his crossbow. I staggered, but recovered quickly before his knife could kiss my flesh, and reacting instinctively, I turned the blade back to him, and with an expert thrust, it caught him in the throat before I could register my actions.  
  
My hands pulled away, revolted as his blood flowed thicker and thicker across his neck, staining my fingers and my palms. Gasping for unneeded breath, I wanted to flee and I wanted to cry for my murder, but I could only do the first as Wesley was already waking. Sprinting across the hallway, I broke into Faith's room and looked at her desperately as she stared at my bloodied hands and my disheveled state.  
  
She made as if to collect her things, but I shook my head, grabbing her hand as we fled, even under the morning sun. From what, she asked, but the only answer I could supply was the grinding of my teeth and the shaken syllables, "Myself."   
  
Never minding my burning flesh, we stole away under the protective roof of the convertible and the black of the window's tint.  
  
//  
  
I stole a wallet the other day.   
  
He was a middle-aged man with an expensive suit, so I wagered this one man mugged would suffice for a long while. And, as I held the black leather of it in my hands, I understood, very clearly, for the first time.  
  
It was not the darkness that seduced her, or I; it was not the feeling of power that she or I loved when the rush came. No, there was nothing to love about the sweep of blood or the perfume of crime. It was desperation. It was need for love or life or both, and it was nothing wrong anymore, only an action, a choice. Yes or no, there's the question, and yes weighs the same.  
  
And, the very same night, I left my first body in an alley.  
  
Angel, not Angelus, I told myself, but I knew there was really no line between the two. Even with a soul, I killed, because I had a reason, and that is no reason at all.  
  
We slept in the car now, because it was easier and because it was less costly. Our bodies entwined, we would pray during daylight, blasphemy as it was, for an easier night.  
  
I woke, once, to her screaming. She never screamed before, only wailed or cried or moaned, but now she screamed genuinely, her naked body writhing under some unseen force. Thrashing wildly, she flailed against the window pane, breaking it to pieces with one blow, the shards catching our skin in a million places.  
  
As luck would have it, an elderly lady was walking by, and called the police, hearing her screeches and seeing her bare body being held down by my own.  
  
They arrived in minutes, before I could calm her or arrest her pain. I only realized their presence when the flashlights shone upon her face and the door was forced open in a tug.  
  
Step out of the car, they demanded, put your hands behind your back.   
  
I did only what I was told, watching the lady cop redden at my raw form, and the other officer attempt to carry Faith out of the car. It did no good of course, because she was still shaking and screaming and crying, and the officers, confused, looked at me for answers.  
  
She's sick, I told them simply, before I knocked the woman out and kneed the other in the groin. Grabbing Faith, we were off again, destination unknown.  
  
She had calmed down, finally, as she rested her head against my shoulder and laid herself down to sleep. My own eyes were tiring, blinded by the darkness of the night and ourselves, by the patterns of her curling hair and the design of the black, wisping clouds.  
  
I kept my eyes open.  
  
Because when I closed them, it was darker still.  
  
//  
  
end.  
  
  
  
  
This might be continued, or it may just stay as a single piece. Haven't decided yet.  
  
Please, please, review! I'm tired of getting no feedback for my hard work. It only takes a few seconds, and it's very very much appreciated. 


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